I learned the truth at seventeen... hundred

This is actually my 1699th post here, but I didn't feel like throwing up (!) a filler post just to get the number where I want it. I'm also vaguely recalling not being sure my accounting is absolutely perfectly accurate due to factors whose description would be far longer than it could possibly be worth to anyone else.

(As though any of this could possibly worth anything to anyone else, right?)

Sipping me a brandy-based manhattan (thanks, honey!) after a few errands after work. Brother and sister-in-law visiting this weekend – likely the usual male sibling intake stupidity rivalry. Some of you might know what that means.

So... where was I going to be going with this post...?

Oh, right... I stopped my personally coded means of viewing read.write.as. Gonna try just throwing textural monuments (aka re-presentations) to self over the wall like most everyone else and see if that makes me feel any more like a real blogger. Something about what I'm doing keeps leading to it feeling like my being here constituting a waste of time. I think it's because I either expect or hope for more than this could possibly be.

Now... such is not the case over at Midnight Pub.

Is it simply the possibility of comments (and threads thereof) making the difference?

Hard to say. It also seems rather a different crowd.

Regardless, there being only so much time in the day, well, you know. Or maybe you don't know. What I really meant was “well, you – if you're at least 59 – probably know”, because until you feel Death's proverbial carbon-monoxide-rich breath on your neck, it's practically inconceivable.

Or, at least, it was for me at younger ages. I frittered and wasted the hours in offhand ways to beat the fucking band.